“What is it to you, Hiram Bradford, whom I love?”
“Much more than you suspect, my boy,” was the cool rejoinder. “Answer my question, please. Do you love La Violette?”
Douglas shut his fists and set his teeth. For a full minute, he sat and glared at his audacious questioner. But Bradford did not quail. On the contrary, he smiled and said with provoking coolness:
“I must have a positive answer from you. Do you, or do you not, love La Violette?”
“Yes, I—love—her,” replied Ross through his shut teeth.
“You don’t know how happy I am to hear you say that!” the older man exclaimed joyfully. “She loves you, my lad—you know that, as well as I. Will you marry her?”
“You are carrying this thing too far, Bradford,” Douglas cried. “Why do you meddle in my affairs—why have you done so in the past?”
“You want to know?” Bradford replied, his scarred countenance suddenly losing its expression of mocking carelessness, and becoming grave.
“I want to know,” was the decided answer.